


The Asset

by Bodhicitta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, F/M, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper as a spy, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, softcore, very soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-24 01:55:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1587383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bodhicitta/pseuds/Bodhicitta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Molly receives training from an unlikely source, and begins to confess what happened at 221B Baker Street.</p>
          </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I want to help in any way I can.”  Molly said it in the clipped voice that belied her true emotion.

Mycroft stared down his nose at the small, insignificant woman standing before him in the hallway.  "We're very busy here, Dr. Hooper."  He glanced at his pocket watch, and then noticed that she had not left as he had so clearly requested.  This small fact managed to niggle into his brain, and he registered the tiniest bud of annoyance.  "Do ring again...sometime. "

"I'm not leaving."

Mycroft saw that this hiccup in the day's plan would not be so easily dismissed, so he switched to another course.  "Well, there is something you can do.  Come in, Dr. Hooper."  Sinuous menace in his voice.

"No, she'll be a distraction," Sherlock yelled from within the flat.  "Molly, stop.  Stop!  What are you doing, what does 'stop' mean?  Don't even come inside."

Mycroft stepped aside and as Molly entered, he reached behind her, wrapping his left arm about her, and latching onto her right arm with his, encircling her.  He half-guided her, half-forced her to the couch.  "Come in, Dr. Hooper, so nice you could drop by."

John emerged from his bedroom.

"My-, Mycroft get away from her…"  John looked nervously from the little pathologist to the most dangerous man in Britain.

"Mycroft, play nice!"  Sherlock barked.

"You know that I do _not_ ,"  Big Brother answered.  Mycroft deposited Molly on the edge of the couch like she was waiting to be interviewed for a job.

The boys resumed their machinations.  Mumbling in low tones about Moscow, Foreign Minister Lavrov, the half-life of uranium-427, the men ignored Molly thoroughly.  

Since no one would talk to her, she launched into the middle of a conversation.  "So, I broke up with my boyfriend..."

"We know!”  the boys answered in unison.  In truth they didn't know, but based on their past experience with the lovely but awkward Miss Hooper, they could have have as easily guessed that she had brushed her teeth and been just as correct.  

Finally Molly just plunged in with what she wanted to say.  "I know you need help.  I overhead you yesterday at the lab.  You think I don't listen, you don't think I'm as observant as you, or can deduce things.  I am a pathologist, you know."

Mycroft sighed heavily, and, mostly in order to get Molly to leave - and to leave posthaste - burst forth with an uninterrupted diatribe.  “We need you to infiltrate a prostitution ring, sleep your way into the good graces of the head pimp, steal his client list, bewitch and seduce a nuclear engineer, and blackmail him into giving you the scrambled launch codes to two Trident submarines secretly making their way under the polar ice caps as we speak.  Oh, by the way - they are Ukrainian subs.  Do you speak Ukrainian?”

John turned to Molly and cocked an eyebrow.

“That’s disgusting…" she muttered.

Mycroft sniffed.  "Well, yes, we thought you might think so. Bit more involved than baking cookies or making chicken soup...so if you'll kindly leave," opening the door, "and _quickly,_ we have..."

Molly cut him off.  "No, no, I mean the part about the nuclear submarines.  That's what's disgusting.  What are they planning to do with them?  What kind of people…do they know this could trigger a global conflict?  World War III?  Millions of lives at stake?"

"I said...prostitution ring, Dr. Hooper." He said this as if he were saying, "I'll have the chardonnay."  

"We don't need you to pontificate or editorialize," he continued, circling her, slowly.  "We need someone - a _woman_ \- to seduce a violent, unpredictable man and wrap him around her little...." he looked Molly up and down, assessing her curves, her waist size, how much cellulite she might have, her hip circumference.  "...her little _finger_."  

"I can do that.” she said, entirely seriously.  She looked earnestly at each of the men in turn, whose mouths were now to various degrees, agape.

There was silence, and then huge guffaws.  Sherlock actually began to choke on his own laughter as Molly began to list her qualifications, which included several years as a Girl Scout, one wild hen party, and a particularly horrifying rotation in medical school in which several dead hookers turned up on the dissecting table in one week alone.  Took weeks to stop having nightmares about that.

“Girl Scouts?  I can’t breathe,” John managed to sputter.  “Air!  Air!  I need oxygen!”

Mycroft merely chuckled.  “If I couldn’t actually hear the death knell of civilization chiming away inside my skull, I might have time for this.  Sherlock," turning his back to Molly, making her disappear in his mind, "how's the recruitment going?  Patience wearing just a bit thin.  The clock is ticking, Brother-mine."

"Mycroft," Baby Brother answered, "You need to blackmail a much higher quality of engineer if I'm going to crack the American's database of covert freelancers."

“I can do it.  I can do anything.”  Molly said, quite seriously.  

Mycroft and John looked at her with shock.  Mycroft's shock sprang mostly from the objectionable fact that she was still in his presence, while John was in shock that she was actually considering the repellent mission.  Sherlock actually stopped typing.

John stood up and made to open the door.  "Right.  Now we know she’s either lost her marbles or is on drugs.  Sherlock!  Sherlock - have you been drugging people again?"

"Well, not _today_!" yelled Sherlock from across the room, and he resumed typing.  "Fuckity-fuck fuck.  Damn it - they're on to me.  I was almost in.  Too many distractions!"

"It’s one thing to shoot up yourself, but leave the rest of us out of it!" John scolded. 

"Haven't.  Drugged.  Anyone.  Today.  Been a bit busy," Sherlock grimaced, gesturing angrily at the laptop.  "Hacking the CIA and all that!"

Molly desperately tried to re-insinuate herself into the proceedings.  "I would...I would do anything, to help save England, my family, everything I have every known and loved...most of all, my friends."  She tried to not to glance too obviously at the mercurial, wan, curly-headed manchild glaring at his laptop.

Mycroft sighed, and his tone took an avuncular turn.  "Really, Molly...prostitution - it’s not like _Pretty Woman_!  Strange men inside of you - lots of men, inside your mouth (he was whispering now)...more than one man... in a day."

"More than one _at one time_ is more bloody likely!"  Sherlock added loudly, not pausing once to stop his hacking attempt.  "We need someone like, like..."

"Irene?"  John and Mycroft simultaneously offered in disapproving tones.

"I didn't say _Irene_ ," Sherlock added defensively," ...just someone _like_ her."  John and Mycroft looked at him skeptically.  "Someone made of very strong....stuff.  Someone who doesn't bruise too easily, or rather, likes to be bruised.  Never did figure that one out."

John and Mycroft together, "SHERLOCK!  Really, just shut up!"

"Well, we're all trying to talk her out of it," Sherlock added, "but I’m the only one who’s really going to tell her what it’s really like.  Messy, really messy, Molls.  You're gonna need a shot of penicillin before, during, and after.  Definitely after!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Yes, we know about prostitution in all its graphic detail.  Spare us."

"Yes, spare us, really!!  John pleaded.  "Wait, Mycroft - you know about prostitution?"  Mycroft merely sighed.

Molly waited for their debate to simmer down to a low boil, and quietly said, "I can do this.  I will do this.  I can do anything.  You don't understand me.  You think you do," turning to John, "but you’ve never known me.  You’ve never taken the time to really get to know me," she said, shooting daggers at Sherlock.  

The consulting detective shrugged his shoulders in assent - even he had to admit this was true.

"And you," directing her ire towards Mycroft.  "You don't know what I’m capable of," Molly continued, "and how could you?  All you know is your databases and intel.  You think that numbers and algorithms can tell the secrets of a human heart.  Well, you're wrong.  Some of us keep our secrets locked away.  Not everything is on the internet!"

Mycroft's gaze became deeply shadowed.  "I'm never wrong," he intoned, taking great umbrage at the mere suggestion.

Sherlock agreed, "S'true, really.  Except that one time, with that guy....the Irish bloke."

"But it’s not about me, or you, or these twisted, boring interpersonal politics, is it now, boys?  It’s about something entirely more significant, isn’t it? It’s about England."  Molly sat down in a huff.  She was trembling but struggled to keep it hidden.

“Screw England," John burst forth, "we’ll be lucky if we save the bloody Free World!” 

Molly pursed up her mouth into a quiet resolute knot.  “Then there really is not much choice is there?  How much time are we looking at? Days? Hours?  Who are you going to train in that time.  I’m here.  I’m willing.  For all you know, I could be your best asset.  I have skills you have never seen."

Mycroft, repeated her last words.  "Skills you have never seen."  He stood up directly in front of her, staring down at her, assessing her, calculating, imagining her in every sort of scenario of mayhem, danger, and chaos.  Her eyes were liquid pools of chocolate, soft and inviting.  Something in her lips hinted at sweet but untapped pleasures.  He swallowed down the vague beginnings of desire, as he had many times in the past.  There was something....about her.   _Yes...._

Sherlock, looking back and forth between Molly's upturned moon face and his older brother's fixed stare (which was unlike anything he had ever seen from Mikey), made a mental note to research the predatory habits of the Asiatic lion.

Molly stood up, and appealing to all the gentleman in the room at once, said, “Put me in, coach!” She tried to crack a smile.  

The boys were not smiling.

 

_Next: Chapter 2 - Recruitment_

 


	2. Recruitment

Mycroft broke the spell with achuckle **.** "We’ll need you to do something for us...first."  

“Okay.  I'm here.  I'm ready.  I can take, uh...two days off from work.  Maybe more."  

"Oh, two whole days?" said Mycroft, sarcastically.  He walked right up to Molly.  Hehad to lean over considerably given their height differential.  Then he took one long finger, moved aside the lock of brown hair that had not been caught up in the ponytail holder, and placed his elegant, freshly manicured hand up to her ear.  The casual observer would have seen only his mouth moving behind that hand, his eyes looking not at her face (so close, so lovely), but beyond, at The Brother, who had resumed breaking into the most secure server on the planet.  Molly noted that the elder Holmes' breath was very, very warm, and just a tad moist.  He smelled unexpectedly lovely, like the leather on her granddad's Bible.

But as he continued to speak, her eyes widened.  Anger flashed across her face, and she slapped him.  She had gotten quite good at that, recently.

Mycroft smiled almost with pride; his words had hit their mark.  “Good.  You have some spunk in you.  And your aim is spot on."  He walked over to the flat's makeshift bar and picked up the bottle of Scotch that he had given his brother for his first birthday back from the Eastern adventure.  

He looked back over his shoulder at Molly.  "Another woman would have scurried out the door.  You’re still here."  He said the last bit almost as a question.

Molly swallowed her fury.  “When you’re entirely serious, do contact me," whispering for Mycroft's ears only.

What?" John asked.  "What?  What did he say?  Could we really just stop all this whispering?"

Molly glared back and forth between Mycroft and John.  "Oh, really, I thought you all needed help, not to get your rocks off."  Mycroft chuckled at this turn of phrase.  "When you get serious," Molly continued, "call me - you have my cell.  But don’t waste time..." as she grabbed her purse.  “England, the Free World, all of humanity, and all that..."

Sherlock's cackling interrupted her exit monologue.  Molly charged over to him like a wet hen.   When he saw how pissed off she was, his devilish grin fell, and he resumed typing.

“What are you forever laughing at?” She was so sick of his adolescent bullcrap.

"Well, you said _'cellphone'_ …when you see, I don't really need your cellie to contact you since, well, actually, I have cameras and wiretaps installed all over your flat, but that's beside the point…"

Molly sputtered.  "What do you mean installed all over my...."

Mycroft affirmed, "All over."  Molly turned to the tall gentleman in the bespoke suit.  She opened her mouth to object, but he cut her off.  "Yes.   _Everywhere_."

“I could just hit you," she muttered to no one in particular, meaning none of them and all of them.  "Really I could.”  She crossed back through the room in a few strides, realizing what a fool she had made of herself.

But Mycroft blocked her egress, his long, straight back leaning against the door, as immovable as the Pyramids.

Molly reached about him, snaking her hand very close to his pants waistband to find the door handle.  He moved his torso to block her. "Tut, tut, tut."  

Mycroft looked the determined little woman up and down, slowly, appraising every sinew, every strand of hair, every pore on her alabaster face.  His steely eyes narrowed; he cocked his head to one side, as if in a different light she might seem more agreeable.  Molly thought she detected the faintest hint of blood rising to his cheeks, the barest stirring of human emotion coursing beneath his pallid complexion.  But she was wrong.  He had no emotions.  A snake had more human feeling.

She tried to get a hold of the door handle again, and he deftly blocked her arm, grabbing it brutishly.  She gasped, not from pain, but from pique.

“You see.  It’s not nice to be manhandled, is it Molly?”  She struggled to release her hand, and found that Mycroft had effectively imprisoned her.  “No, no, you’re not going anywhere.  You see - one snap.”  The sharp movement he made forced her to inhale sharply through her nostrils.  "You're a doctor, or at least, you trained as one.  You know what this would do, no?"  

She nodded.  

Mycroft continued his narration, caressing the flesh on her inner arm with his eyes.  "Just one quick snap, Miss Hooper, and this pretty, little arm, so thin, so delicate, would take so much surgery to repair.  And what a shame too,” he said, rolling the pale arm now bruising in his grasp,  “So lovely…like a swan’s _neck_.”

Molly turned her face to meet his full on.  “If you are trying to scare me, you can’t,” she affirmed.

Mycroft smiled sardonically.  “Is that the sound of a gauntlet hitting the floor, as it were?”  He leaned in very close to her ear; her hair rustled with his next words.  “I wouldn’t test it, my pet.  So many ways to scare so _many_ parts of you.”  She could hear the sound of his breathing for what felt like many moments.  He seemed to be filled with disdain for her and yet he seemed to take very opportunity to inspect her neck, her cheek, her hair...very closely.  She dared to look up at him  - their faces were awfully close.  After a split second, he finally moved his mouth away from hers.

"What the what?  Let her go!  Have you lost your mind?” John had just come out of the loo.  "Did I miss something?  She was leaving, and now you’re teaching her the finer points of Jujitsu...let her go!"

The 'low-level bureaucrat' released Molly's arm and with a smile, admired the blue blossoms flowering there.  John gallantly interposed himself in between Mycroft and Molly, and led her to the couch.   

"What the hell is on your arm?"  She wouldn't answer, biting her lip to stop herself from crying.  "Molly?"  John whipped around to the elder Holmes. "Mycroft!" he snapped.

“You want to join up?  Get stuck in?  You play by our rules.”  Mycroft swiped his hands against each other as if they were soiled, and walked away from the evolving dramatics.  Field work, touching  _people_  - not quite his area.  Still, if something needed doing....He poured himself some much needed Scotch.

"Sherlock, Sherlock?"  John appealed to the detective, who had lost interest in the proceedings and was even more thoroughly immersed in his hack.  "Sherlock," John repeated, "you might have a word with your brother on how to treat a woman!”

Without missing one keystroke, Sherlock intoned, “Mycroft, a word, treat a woman.  Now, get.  Out.  Of.  My.  Way.  Firewall!  There, there...good..."

Molly smoothed the front of her blouse, rebuttoned the second button from the top which had come loose, pulled her cuffs back into place.  Fixed an errant hair. “But really, when you all get done playing about, let me help!”

Mycroft folded his long, lanky frame into the nearest available chair, slowly crossed his legs and resumed inspecting his glass of Scotch.  “I wasn’t playing about.  What did you think it would be like, this mission?  I'd send Sherlock, but he has even less experience in these matters than you, a former Campfire Girl.”   He snorted and swirled his Scotch in his glass.  His cell phone vibrated, and he took it out to catch up on what was happening in Nigeria.

"What’s going on now?" John was at a loss. 

Mycroft put his cellphone away.  "Among other things, I’m waiting for our newest recruit to prove her mettle.”  Molly was staring him down, her eyes filled with tears of fury and rage and something else.  He couldn't tell, but it might be...something useful.  

He took a swig of his Scotch without taking his eyes from hers.  To John, and tangentially, his brother, he added, "Lads, queue up.  Show's about to begin."

All the blood drained from Molly’s face.  “You are a disgusting pig.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, frowned, and nodded.  "Mmm.  I’m sure some of the clients will like that kind of talk very much.  I prefer silence."  He took another swig of Scotch.  "At least from you."

"What's happening?" John implored, thoroughly confused.

Molly turned to John.  "Sherlock's brother wants me to...to pleasure myself.  In front of you lot."

John's mouth popped open.  

Sherlock's hands froze over his keyboard as his mental hard drive crashed.

 

_Next - Chapter 3 - Molly Proves Her mettle_

 


	3. The Proving Ground  - part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly receives training from an unlikely source, and begins to confess what happened at 221B Baker Street.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

Molly stopped dripping hot wax on the beautiful female bottom before her.

"I didn’t say ‘stop!’"  Irene bolted upright on the bed, her small breasts jiggling slightly before coming to a stop.   "Let's get one thing straight.  I was coerced into being here by a certain tall, ginger-haired government henchman, and I have better ways to spend my time than going over the same material with you time and time again!"

Molly looked down sheepishly.  "I'm sorry...it's just...I can't cause anyone to have pain..."

Irene rolled her eyes.  "Jesus, why are you apologizing?  Oh my lord, we're going to have start from scratch.  Now hit me."

Molly bit her lower lip and winced.  "Where?"

Irene sighed loudly.  "Oh, anywhere.  Use your imagination."  Molly was frozen.  Irene flounced back over on her stomach and stuck her buttocks high in the air.  "My inner thighs.  Stroke them first and then make them sting.  Leave a mark."  Her voice dripped with boredom.  From Irene's vantage point it had been a _very_ boring few days.  But from Molly's point of view, the last few days had been among the most exciting in her life.  First the emotionally exhausting episode at Baker Street.  Then she found herself in the care, or rather, the captivity of British black ops.  

After days of indifferent treatment from stony-faced jailors, Molly was almost relieved when a lovely, diminutive woman slinked into her room and dropped her pink silk robe to the floor, revealing her naked form.

Molly recognized her instantly from _"not her face."_

Molly must have registered that recognition on her face, because the woman asked, "You know who I am?"

Molly nodded in assent.  

The slim brunette looked about her.  "I've been in worse places.  Better.  Worse."

Irene ambled about the room, taking her time to sweep her long manicured nails under shelves, over lampshades, searching for listening devices, cameras, explosives triggers.  

Almost as an afterthought she surveyed Molly who was huddled under the covers in the bed that had been provided for her.  

"You know what I'm here for?"

Molly ventured, "Training, I suppose.  He said I was woefully lacking in skills."

Irene crossed the room in a few quick strides.  "Shall we begin?"

Molly clutched the sheets around her tightly.

Irene sat down on the bed next to her and moved the sheet aside to reveal a pale, trembling leg.  "My...you're like a little fawn aren't you?"  She pulled something from behind her back.  "We'll have to change all that."  And she smacked Molly's exposed leg with a man's belt.

Molly chortled.  "Is that the best you can do?"

Irene cocked an eyebrow.  "Oh, no.  You're a mouthy little girl.  You talk back.  I'm going to have to beat you black and blue.  And you're going to like it."

 ***  
Later, Irene explained that various clients will have very specific demands, and shockingly, a large majority of them wanted to be treated like whores.  Men and women both.  To convincingly pass herself off as a hooker, Molly would need to feel comfortable issuing directives.

"So say something," Irene demanded.  "Boss me around."

"Get on the bed you, you, you _woman_ ," Molly offered.

"No, no, no!"  Irene was getting frustrated with her trainee's lack of conviction.  "Don’t say it like you are ordering doner kebab!  Say it like you mean it!  Say it like you’ll beat my buttocks until they are red if I don’t comply."

Molly reached deep down inside of herself.  "Get on the bed, you goddamned _whore_."

"That was kind of arousing.  Something about being bossed about by a mousy wee thing wearing a ponytail.  Do it again.”

Molly laughed.  “I can’t.”

“I said,  _‘say it again.’_ ”

Molly put her arms on her hips like Wonder Woman.  “Get on the bed, you little cunt.  And spread your legs."

Irene sighed.  "We’ll work on that.  That really didn’t do anything for me.  Sounded like you were telling me to pick my socks up off of the floor."  

But in truth, Irene was immensely turned on.  To punish Molly for arousing her, Irene pushed her down on the bed and inflicted her most earnest training yet. 

 ***

Irene had just thoroughly chastised her latest trainee with a hairbrush; master and pupil lounged in separate chairs across the room from one another - Irene examining her nails, Molly curled up in a thoughtful ball.  

Suddenly Irene noticed Molly again.  "How did you end here in this sex dungeon, for lack of a better word?"

So Molly related her story as best she could.  "I went over to Baker Street, offered myself up as a spy, and was told in no uncertain terms I'd have to make Mycroft blow his load before he'd let me near his training facility."

"Bit different word choice than I'd imagine from him.  I'm sure he thought you wouldn't do it.  Or couldn't."

Molly was silent.

Irene looked aghast.  "You did it?"  

With a newfound admiration, Irene rededicated herself to providing the most mind-blowing, girl-on-girl S&M training she could deliver.  She had begun to grow fond of the ex-Campfire Girl, and wanted her to have all the tools she would need to survive this most dangerous assignment.

 ***

On the fourth day, the girls cozied up together, rubbing each other's backs, doing hair and nails.   

"Try this one," murmured Irene, holding out little bell-shaped bottle - it's this new kind of nail polish.  It smells delicious - isn't that weird?  I think this is sandalwood."

Molly opened it, took a sniff.  "Nail polish is very bad for you."

"Scientists know altogether too much...takes the fun out of everything," Irene replied in a huff.  "One Bulgarian chemist insisted on explaining the neurological implications of orgasm while I was going down on him.  That took forever.  Still need a neck massage once in a while."

Irene noticed Molly's attention had drifted.  The dominatrix padded barefoot over to the bar and poured a something out of a decanter.  She turned and handed Molly a glass of pineapple juice.  "Drink this."

 Molly waved it away.  "Why?"

"Trust me - drink this."  

"Oh, no, you mean..."  Molly had heard something about this, perhaps had read it in a woman's magazine.

"Yeah.  Just drink this.  It makes your lady business taste like really, really swell."  Irene added some seltzer and dropped a cherry in.  Molly noted that in contrast to her reputation for being hard as nails, sometimes Irene did make an effort - something most of Molly's boyfriends failed to do.   She just always added something extra - a cherry, a pinch, a nibble, a caress.  A little something to let you know she cared, or was capable of caring - _if you gave her what she wanted._

 "So finish the story!  You keep avoiding it."

"Which story?"

"Don't be so coy.  You know what I want to hear - your deflowering by the Holmes' boys and that hot piece of teddy bear goodness John Watson.  Besides - I'm leaving tomorrow."  

Molly felt her heart sink.  These days with Irene had been a sort of idyll.  Limbs intertwined, bits of pleasure punctuated by hot lashes of pain, oddly comforting moments interrupted with scoldings, beratings.  Being penetrated by a woman, being taught how to both give and receive, sometimes concurrently....

Having her hair stroked as loving words cooed into her ear.  Sometimes only a woman knew how to soothe another woman.

This is what Irene was doing now, stroking her hair, braiding silly little braids and undoing them, mussing Molly's hair into frightful tangles, and then just rubbing her scalp really hard like a cat kneading a basket of laundry,

“I want to know what happened after Mycroft Holmes ordered you to finger-fuck yourself!"

“What do you think?  I did it.  Well, sort of."

Irene let out a squeal of delight.  “You dirty little tramp."  She grabbed Molly's face and was suddenly serious.  "Look at me when I'm talking to you, you little bitch!"

Molly smothered a giggle.

Irene grabbed her face harder.  "Tell me more!  What did Sherlock say?”  Irene lingered over the name of the consulting detective, using her tongue to great visual effect on the second syllable.

“Say?  He didn’t really say anything.  He just sat there, sort of staring off into space, neither looking at me nor looking away,” Molly reported.

“Ooh, I'm jealous.  And did you make yourself wet?”

"Well, yeah, eventually."

Irene stopped and stared at her.  "You filthy, filthy little whore.  You need to be punished."  Molly obediently rolled on her tummy and pulled down her panties to reveal buttocks as pink as cherry blossoms.

"But first, tell me more," Irene said.

"I will," Molly promised.  "After you show me that thing again, that thing you do with your tongue?  I’m sure it will be useful."

Irene sidled over.  "Oh, it is very useful.   And I like how you are delaying my pleasure...you know how much I want to hear the end of your story.  You are beginning to use my desires against me.  I might have to give you a gold star."

 

_Next - Molly finishes her story; Sherlock and Mycroft miss the point of Molly's bold action_

 


	4. The Proving Ground  - part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes boys deduce Molly's bra

The air in the messy bachelor apartment felt thick, stale.  She felt she had been plunged into a nightmare...maybe this is a nightmare.   _What am I doing here?_  Molly wondered.

“Is this really happening?"  Sherlock broke free from his trance, rolled his eyes, picked up his wireless keyboard and slammed it down on the table with both his hands.  “We've got everything to do, and we're to stop for this?”

“I know you're not interested, Sherlock, so you can go back to hacking."  Mycroft padded his suit jacket in search of a cigarette.  "Sorry, this is a live woman.  We don't have any dead ones for you to play with.”

“I never.”  

"Never?”  Mycroft countered.

Sherlock looked down sheepishly.  "Well, that one time...but it was for research!"

***

_"And then what happened?"  Irene kicked Molly hard in the calf to urge her to continue._

_"Ow!"_

_"Sorry, love.  Let me kiss it and make it better."  Irene carried out soft ministrations on Molly's leg._

_"Well," Molly continued, soothed by the moist apology, "Sherlock pretended not to be interested.  You know them - they couldn't stop nitpicking each other.  The brothers."_

_"Oh, pretended?  Sherlock only pretended not to be interested?  Do tell!"_

_***_

_"_ "You do know I have a live connection with four servers in Quantico..." Sherlock gesticulated proudly and aggressively at his laptop behind him on the desk.

"Yes, but Dr. Hooper is here, and we need an agent operational in," he glanced at his watch, "five days."

"Oh, Molly, Molly Hooper," Sherlock chortled.  "She has never even held a gun, have you even, Molly?"

For some reason the brothers’ bickering emboldened Molly.  She unbuttoned her blouse, pulled her arms out of both sleeves and let the garment drop at her feet.  She observed that they hadn't noticed, so she undid the clasp at her bra and took it off, flinging it across the room deliberately in the direction of that tall, entitled, haughty, balding...

***

_"What is he, exactly, Irene? - a spy? A procurer of spies?  An assassin?"_

_Irene shrugged.  "I would think he keeps his hands rather clean."_

_Molly persists.  "But I mean, who the hell is he?"_

_"Not sure if I want to know."  Irene looked about the room, her eye landing on gold-tone doorknob, fake brass from a local hardware store.  "Not sure if you should persist in that line."  For the first time since training had begun, she seemed agitated._

_***_

The bra whipped across the room like a slingshot, and Mycroft caught it with one hand as it was about to hit his face.

"That was a nice touch, Dr. Hooper,"  Mycroft said with genuine admiration.  He turned the lacy confection over in his hand.  “I rather like the little red rosette here, in the center," he murmured, fingering the fabric flower with his thumb.  "Didn’t peg you for black lace."  He looked up to confront Molly's skeptical stare.  "Something more utilitarian would have been my guess.”

“You’ve guessed wrong quite a lot, Mr. Holmes,” she said with a pout.

He smiled and chuckled.  "Wrong.  There's that word again.  Here, Sherlock."  He dangled the bra from one strap at the end of his long well-muscled finger.  "What do you make of this?"

***

_Irene moved closer to Molly and caressed her hair.  Molly noticed that Irene always seemed to fall back on the sexual in order to get her way.  Was it that sexuality works best, cuts through all the clutter?  Or did she really have such a limited repertoire of stratagems? She felt a bit traitorous for even thinking that her astute instructor might be less than...masterful._

_"What did Sherlock do!?!" the dominatrix cajoled.  "It's making me hot just thinking about it!  Did he run into his room like a little boy?  He's such a little boy, you know.  All pouts and sullen faces and whining and selfishness.  I'd like to spank his naughty little bottom.  Teach him how to obey."_

***

Sherlock recoiled from the brassiere.  “I'm not taking it.”  

Mycroft lept to his  feet.  "Take the bra, little brother."

"Oh, God, I’m having flashbacks!"  Sherlock grabbed at his hair with both hands and pulled his fingers through two great chunks of it.  "It’s sixth grade all over again!"

"No one invited you to come to that party, but once there, you've got to get stuck in.  We've talked about this before...."

“You weren’t invited either.”

"I invited myself," Mycroft sniffed.  "I needed to do research."

Molly crossed her arms in front of her breasts - it was chilly.  Being ignored made her feel even colder, strangely, made her feel not less self-conscious, but more.  She began to shiver as Mycroft and Sherlock argued over the location of the bra’s manufacturer, how old it was, how many times it might have been laundered, and whether Molly’s perfume was primarily sandalwood, lemon verbena, both or neither.

 ***

_"They were smelling your bra?"_

_"Yes…"  Molly sighed at the memory.  First one brother pressed his face deeply into one cup and inhaled.  Then the other passed it near his nose and took quick sniffs, like assessing fine wine.  If this was not the most lovely thing she had ever seen, she did not know what was._

_"I mean, were they taking little sniffs, or...?"_

_"Sherlock buried his face in one of the cups," Molly recalled.  "Both cups actually.  One cup and then the next.  A few times."_

_"A few times."_

_"Yes," said Molly.  "Like he couldn't get enough."_

_Irene was silent for a moment.  "I hate you, you bitch.  What did he say?"_

_"I think it was something like..."_

***

“A not unpleasant aroma.  Sandalwood  - from Australia."

"No, Bangladesh," corrected Mycroft.  

Sherlock silently rejected Mycroft's assessment and continued with his own deductions.  "Sandalwood, genus s _antalum_.  Grows by parasitically wrapping itself around the root system of other trees.  And then killing them." 

"Not necessarily.  Not all parasites kill their host," Mycroft pointedly stated.

"Most do," Sherlock countered.  Molly got the sense they were speaking metaphorically, but whether it was about the British government's interference in the affairs of oil-rich nations, the machinations of terror groups seeking to infiltrate local mosques, or their own fraught fraternal intertwinedness, she could not tell.

"Sandalwood is very slow-growing."  Mycroft sidled over to the window, pushed aside a blind, and looked out to see whether the four units assigned to cover 221B Baker Street were being attentive or were on lunch break.  "Before the other tree has a chance to die, the _santalum_ has entirely taken over its root system.  Harvested its nutrients.  Now they live in symbiosis."

"That sounds awful," Molly interjected. "Just because something doesn't kill you doesn't mean you want it in your life."  

Sherlock glanced up and caught Molly eyes; he looked as if he were startled to see that she was still there.  He began to walk towards her slowly, panther-like, not from sexual attraction, but because he wanted to see if her pupils would react to his next revelation, to see if his arrow hit the mark.

"Of course, Molly can't afford sandalwood.  Not the real kind anyway.  It's twenty-five pounds for one of those teeny tiny little bottles you can buy at the health food store."  Sherlock moved in for the kill.  "Oh, by the way, Molly, yours is not real.  The vendor outside your apartment on every other Saturday (except when it's raining or when they have to pick up their daughter from the airport) - they pegged you for someone who wouldn't know better and they've been selling you the cheap stuff.  It's a synthetic.  Isobornyl cyclohexanol.  Not sure how healthy that is.  Definitely stop using it if you plan to get knocked up."[  
](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isobornyl_cyclohexanol)

"Enough!"  John stood up and with the ferocity of a pitbull began to castigate the brothers.  "Don't you see she's standing here half naked?"

Molly and John locked eyes.  She covered her breasts more tightly, bit her lip.

_Next - Molly's striptease_


	5. Chapter 5

Both Mycroft and Sherlock were jolted by John's outburst.  Glancing over to the almost-forgotten Molly, they coolly appraised her.  

Sherlock deigned to be the first to offer an evaluation.  "Oh, look, Mycroft.  She's standing there like a fourteen year old in the girl's locker room.  Although I'm sure it's the most naked female flesh you've seen, Brother Mine.  In real life, I mean.   _Game of Thrones_  doesn't count."

Indeed, Mycroft was now staring at Molly.  But she couldn't tell if he was transfixed by her beauty or annoyed by her lack of it.  Finally, he shuttered his eyes, breathed deeply and turning to Sherlock, said, "I've seen more notable naked female flesh on the tube.  And I don't watch whatever that is you just mentioned."

John snorted.  "Tube.  Like you take the tube."

Sherlock snorted as well.  "Like you _don't_ watch _Game of Thrones_.  I happen to know you watch it with Eliza..."

"You can refrain from finishing her name, thank you."

"Oh, I'm not worthy to..."

"You're not worthy to even _think_ about her, much less mention her name in this putrid little flat.  Some things actually matter, Sherlock.  You'll figure it out one day.  And what a fine day that will be."  Mycroft instantly regretted revealing his tender spot for The Monarch.

"Elizabeth.  The Queen.  Her Majesty.  Liz.  Lizzie.  Zibby.  Betsy."  Vexing Little Brother.

"Shut up." 

Whilst the boys re-commenced their bickering, Molly completely disrobed - and no one noticed.  Except John.  His eyes grew very wide, and he cast his gaze down somewhere between his shoes and the wall.   Molly felt as silly as one feels in the doctor's office.  She was beginning to think it was all one colossal practical joke.

Her modest little wardrobe lay in a small pile at her feet.  She picked up her garments and began to neatly fold them across the nearest chair.  The white cotton blouse, a brown cardigan, a plum-colored corduroy skirt, a pair of pink socks with green stripes.  White cotton panties printed with red roses.

Sherlock wheeled around.  "Oh, look, look at our master spy."  He flailed his long arms at her dramatically.  "She's folding her clothes like a good little girl and laying them over the chair!"

Molly froze momentarily, then recommenced smoothing the rumples out of her skirt.

"Mycroft, do you see?"  Sherlock was aghast.

"I see.  I see."  His voice run through a grater.  Would he get a dread disease later in life, from all those secret smokes?  Or was that just his lust seeping through?

Molly froze again.  

"No.  Don't stop."  Mycroft found his chair again.  "Keep...folding your clothes."  

Somehow being entirely naked made Molly feel more comfortable.  Whatever was the big deal about nudity?  She was just a body.  Everyone has one.  Everyone has bits that are embarrassing.  Cellulite, scars, acne, knobby knees.  However, she was awfully glad she had gone in for some "landscaping" recently.  

She walked over to Mycroft and stood just in front of him.  She could see Sherlock off to the side.  John was behind her.

Mycroft's eyes were firmly fixed at her crotch.  Then he raised his eyebrows.

"Now, _that_ , I did not know."

"You didn't think I was a ginger."

"I must confess, I was unaware of that aspect of your....physique.  Dr. Hooper.  I've never heard of dyeing the hair on one's head in order to be _less_ attractive."  

"I don't dye my hair.  This is just how it is...it's always been that way, and as I got older, the auburn faded but not down...uh, I don't need to explain my cooch to you!"

Somewhat more interested, Mycroft nodded at her.  "Proceed."

Standing in front of He Who Issues Orders, she began to slowly, slowly rub her mons--this elicited no reaction, none whatsoever.  For some reason this was making her feel flushed and warm - the fact that he couldn’t care less.  Both of his hands were on the armrests.  He was a statue with burning bright eyes and a face of stone.  Their eyes were locked in enmity.

She stopped rubbing herself, and wheeled around, showing him her lovely, pear-shaped buttocks.  She was glad she was still wearing her heels - it made her felt more confident.

***

_Irene sighed and rolled over in bed.  "I know what you mean!  I do my best work in heels.  You do have quite a cute, curvy little bottom there.”_

_Irene stroked Molly’s buttocks with her whip. “Not like a little boy, like me. You look like a Venus under all those abyssmal rags. Did that haughty bastard shoot his load right there?”_

_"No, he did not..."  Molly admitted._

_**_

Molly turned her face back to Mycroft, flinging her loosened hair to look at him over her shoulder. “Follow me,” and glancing at the bulge in his pants, “but leave your gun out here.”

Mycroft protested haughtily, "I don't have a _gun_ ," but looking down at his own crotch, he had to mutter, "Oh..." and he was silenced.  He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. 

Even though the elder Holmes was the master of countless spies, had the ear of the American president, the PM, and Her Majesty; even after that weeks-long tantric yoga training, he _still_ couldn’t control his own erection, especially in the presence of certain brown-haired, doe-eyed women with a girl-next door shyness and a plainness he found...pragmatic.  This weakness infuriated him, and his eyes flashed with anger.  As long as women, men - anyone really - had this sort of power to infiltrate his mind and play havoc with his biologic processes, he was a pawn, not the chessmaster.  He made a mental note to resume his study of the Kama Sutra, the works of Alfred Kinsey...to watch more porn whilst eating his least favorite food (lima beans).

While Mycroft pondered how he might best divest himself of all sexual feeling, Molly had left his immediate vicinity and had begun to walk towards Sherlock's bedroom. She was proud about that bit with the gun. Some bit of female bravado she had surely seen somewhere on telly, something half-remembered from Mae West.

"Do you mind?"  Ever polite.  Not appropriate, to walk naked into someone else's bedroom.  Sherlock shrugged, baffled at all that was taking place, and shook his head "no."

Molly pushed the door open, looked back over her shoulder, feigning confidence in how she had assumed control, like a Mata Hari - but none of them were looking at her.  So she pushed her way into the bedroom, her heels almost giving out under her.  She could have sworn she heard masculine laughter behind her.

Inside the bedroom, her confidence flagged.  She was terrible, totally not sexy.  Her shoulders hunched over and she dropped her chin lower.  A tear almost rose to her eye.

With a sigh, she lay down.   Looking back over her head she saw Sherlock’s jujitsu diploma on the wall over the bed.

Then she heard the sound of one, two, three men walking, masculine footfalls coming towards the room.  They entered slowly, one at a time.

She was already lying prone and had one arm across her breasts, hiding her nipples; the other hand covered her labia majora.

Mycroft walked over to the window and took a moment to check his Blackberry for the latest developments in three different international crises.  He snapped back to attention (and almost as an afterthought) shouted an admonishment to the naked woman lying on his brother's bed.

"You're going to have to do this in front of strangers, you know.  We haven't got all year!"

Molly lifted her head to retort. “I would much rather do it in front of a room full of strangers, than in front of you buffoons." At least strangers would act like they wanted to see her, would act as if she were beautiful, desirable - to put not too fine a point on it, _fuckable_.

“This is horrible, this has got to stop.”  John took off his cardigan and began to forcibly dress Molly with it, stretching it out in an effort to cover all the naked bits of her.  Molly gently but insistently pushed his arms away, shook her head.

“Well, John," Mycroft snapped, "if you find it so offensive you can go into the next room and put on your headphones."

“And leave her here with you two...machines?”  John's ire was beginning to overflow its banks.  He turned to the shivering young woman, and shook his head in dismay at all that was occurring.  "I promise I won't watch, Molly."  Whispering to his shoes.

"Well, if you're not going to watch, why are you staying? The whole point," Mycroft's voice dropped down, and he hoarsely continued, "is to watch."

Well, now she didn’t know what to think.  At times the elder Holmes seemed made of ice, but then his voice became raw with gravel and murder and lust and too many cigarettes.  She was already so engorged and that last bit he said made her dizzy.  She closed her eyes and looked off to the side.

"Nope.  Eyes open.  Always.  Keep.  Your eyes.  Open.”  Mycroft.  Issuing orders.

Molly popped up and sat upright. “My, you're the bossy one."

“Don't talk to me," he retorted immediately.

***

_Irene sighed.  "He thinks he is so bossy.  I'd like to show him who's the boss.  I'd have him kissing my instep in no time."_

_Molly shook her head.  "I'm not so sure - he's very dominant."_

_Irene scoffed.  "Keep talking.  I'm getting really hot.  Paint a picture for me.  Where were they in the room?  Were they, like, all surrounding you, wanking themselves off?"_

_"Not exactly."_

_"Were they wanking each other off?"_

_Molly laughed._

***

John, in the corner, looking own at his shoes, shamefaced.  "I'm just here for you, Molly, to make sure nothing goes awry.”

Mycroft, in the other corner.  Leaning against the wall, contemplating his unlit cigarette, looking for all the world like he was watching paint dry.

Sherlock, however, was transfixed. He was standing right over her, his eyes scanning her up and down like an MRI machine.  Inspecting, evaluating.  She thought she detected a bulge in his pants...but she dismissed this notion as wishful thinking.  

"You're...really doing this?"  Sherlock asked, innocently.  He was genuinely curious.

She closed her eyes again - this isn’t so bad.  They - the three of them - were just going to watch, like doctors watching a patient.  This she could understand; it was for research…almost.  Sherlock for science or something like it, she guessed; John to make sure nothing went amiss.  Mycroft to see how far she would go, how many of his commands she would obey.  For the mission.  To prove her reliability.  

***  
 _Irene was lying on her stomach now, undulating, grasping the comforter with her fingers, grinding her hips ever more insistently into the bed._

_"Which one of them touched you first?  I have to know!"_

_She reached her hand underneath her body and began to rub herself. "Was it Sherlock? Was it John?  Come on!  Tell me!"_

_Molly sat on the far side of the bed, contemplating the melodramatics in front of her.  Sometimes the so-called dominatrix's whining irritated Molly._

***

Her own awareness of her nakedness came in waves.  Sometimes she felt utterly exposed, embarrassed, ashamed.  And then, she felt like a log lying in the woods.  They – none of them – had any sexual desire for Molly, so it didn’t matter.  This is what she decided.  She was a lump of clay as far as they were concerned, so what did it matter what she looked like naked.  Still she wish she had not quit the Pilates class.

It would be like a clinical examination - but she was both patient and the doctor.  She explored her nipples much as she did once a month to check for lumps.  She palpitated them, kneaded them. They were a bit tender - she might be ovulating.  With her other hand, she gently, slowly opened herself up, tenderly.  Her mind started to wander...

And then she suddenly felt male fingertips, two of them, pushing her fingers aside.  She caved in at the pleasure.  Maybe Mycroft had had enough and decided to take advantage of his current power over her, her desire to help, his need of an agent.  Perhaps he really just wanted to know her, know what she felt like.

The fingers - long, thick, smooth, warm - began to tunnel inside of her, just beginning to penetrate.  She couldn't help but buck her hips up just a bit, and grab her own left breast with her right hand.  She imagined that tall, elegant, ginger-haired bureaucrat probing her, almost like a technician searching for a faulty wire...clinically... methodically....

She opened her eyes and beheld something quite unexpected.

The tall boy with the dark hair, his whole being quivering.  Trembling.  His nostrils flared in something that looked like anger or serious purpose.  Grey eyes like an ocean before a storm, narrowed down to points...incising her.

“Sherlock?” Molly gasped.  He froze, but didn't withdraw his two longest fingers. 

He began to say something but thought better of it.  He gulped, and then his face twisted into what looked like pain, or sadness, or something else.  His dark locks began to gleam with sweat.

And he proceeded to finger fuck Molly like there was no tomorrow.

 


	6. Doubting Irene

"WHAT?!?!  Sherlock Holmes fingered you?  You filthy little tramp!"

Molly looked down shyly.

Irene moaned, "God, I love his hands.  They are so...big."

Molly agreed.  "His hands are lovely.  His fingers...and..." closing her eyes, "he used his _thumb_ and....it was...so lovely."  She roused herself from her reverie.  "Well, I'm sure for you it would have been nothing."

Irene registered surprise.  "Well, no...I've never had anyone do that to me...well...not since high school anyway."

Molly looked shocked.  "But you've had hundreds of men...women..."

"Hundreds!?!?"

"Well, scads.  Scores.  Lots."  Molly cocked her eyebrows as if to say, 'Right?  I mean this is what we all assumed about the famous Ms. Adler.'

Irene stood up next to the bed and planted her hands on her hips in a miniature of rage.  "Do you think I actually fucked all of those people?  I’m not a whore!"

"You're not?"  Molly was genuinely confused.

"I’m many things, but I’m not a complete and total whore."

Irene got up and poured herself a drink.  "Well, _now_ I see why I'm here." She glanced at the doorknob, and this time Molly noticed.  "You think this work is about fucking everything that moves.  But you see, I give people what they want."

 "Isn't _that_ what they want?"

Irene laughed.  "They want entertainment.  They want a story.  So tell them stories, Molly…tell them the story of what you are going to do to them, or for them, or what you have already done.  Use props.   _Tease_.  Convince them you are going to flay the skin off their bones.  Let them masturbate themselves to orgasm while you count the money and collect the data off of their tablets."

Molly was thoroughly confused.

Irene rolled her eyes.  "So keep going.  Finish."

"Hm?"

"Tell me the story."

"But that wasn’t a story.  That really happened."

"Oh, my dear-heart.  You expect me to believe that Sherlock Holmes _fingered_ you while his beloved John Watson and his..." Irene guffawed, "...his elder brother just watched?"

"But you believed I stripped down in front of them?"

Irene stared at Molly incredulously.  "Like I said, it's been a really good _story_."

Molly wasn’t sure why Irene was so invested in the notion that the whole story up until now had been fiction.  Was it possible that Irene was jealous?  Was she unable to grapple with the notion that a soft-spoken, demure, plain medical school graduate could have seduced men who had found Irene a curiosity at best and disgusting at the bottom.

Whether or not Irene sensed Molly’s mental machinations is a mystery, but on the surface of it – and perhaps in actuality - she seemed oblivious that the good doctor was deducing her.

Molly decided to play into Irene’s ego, to feed the notion that in fact Molly had made the whole thing up.  “Well, I guess it does sound far-fetched.”

“Just because it’s far-fetched doesn’t mean I want you to stop!"

Irene plopped herself down on the bed, laying on her tummy, head propped up on her hands, feet crossed in the air behind her.  She seemed infinitely more comfortable with Molly as a wanna-be seductress, a middle-class worker bee with an overactive imagination.  For the first time, Molly wondered who Irene really was.  Where had she gone to school?  What was she like as a teenager?  Molly had a glimpse, just a glimpse of what it would have been like to know her, in school.  While Molly would have been chained to her books, memorizing the periodic table, would Irene have been having at it with other people's boyfriends?  Or just amassing a treasure trove of gossip to use when it suited her - who fucked the chemistry teacher; which kids were gay and didn't want their parents to know; who was selling what drug to whom. 

But someone like Molly would have always flown under Irene's radar.   _What could that nerdy little mouse possibly have to offer, or trade?_

Irene beat the bed with her fists.  "More, more more!  I want details!"

And details are what pathologist gave her.

 


End file.
